


Due Process

by startraveller776



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 01:04:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20684951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startraveller776/pseuds/startraveller776
Summary: {Formerly "Locked Up"}Regina gets pulled over for speeding in a small town and lands herself in jail. Incarceration is the least of her concerns, however—not when she's stuck with the town's rudely handsome sheriff as company while she waits for the judge to return from his camping trip.





	1. Locked Up

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old, unfinished fic. I changed the name to avoid confusion with another awesome OQ story by Lananiuska. Any updates will likely be sporadic and slow.
> 
> Also, this began as a drabble challenge on Tumblr, so the first chapter is short.

"This is ridiculous!" Regina spits as she’s ushered into a cell. "I want my phone call."

The man on the other side of the bars smiles (smarmy bastard probably thinks he’s handsome). “I’ll take care of that for you just after I finish my paperwork.” He nods toward the bench behind her. “You may as well make yourself comfortable while you’re waiting.”

She rolls her eyes. Stupid small town sheriff. (And seriously, how does a one-stoplight, in-the-middle-of-nowhere-America village even have a _British_ law enforcement officer in the first place?) He takes a seat in a tattered office chair and props his feet up on his desk. From one of the drawers, he retrieves a book.

"Are you seriously going to read a novel right now?" she asks, disbelief heavy in her voice.

He doesn’t look up. “It would seem so, yes.”

She huffs in exasperation. “What, _now_? I thought you were going to do paperwork.”

He holds up a hand, examines his bare wrist, and says, “It’s time for my break, and I only do paperwork at the end of the day.”

Regina grips the steel bars until her knuckles turn white. “As soon as I get out of here,” she threatens through gritted teeth, “I’m going to sue you for wrongful imprisonment.”

That gets his attention. He sets the book down and swings his legs off the desk. “Wrongful imprisonment, you say?”

She glares at him. “And harassment.”

"I see." He bites his bottom lip, nodding slowly. "I think I might fill out the paperwork now, after all."

"It’s about time," she retorts.

"Regina Mills—that’s a lovely name for a beautiful woman," he says as he writes, and she is absolutely _not_ blushing. "Alleged infractions: reckless driving—"

"I was only going ten miles over the limit!" she exclaims.

He glances up at her and winks. “Try thirty.”

"I was not—"

"Next," he continues over her. "Driving with an expired license."

"It was my birthday yesterday! And there aren’t any DMVs nearby in this backwater county."

"Happy belated birthday," he replies, utterly unfazed.

"Thank you," she snaps back at him.

"Not at all." His brows pinch together as if he’s perplexed. "Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t your birthday on the exact same date every year?"

She scowls, but doesn’t answer.

"I believe you had ample warning that your license was to expire. I’m afraid I can’t let that go," he says, turning back to the paperwork. "And finally, assaulting a peace officer."

Her mouth falls open. He’s going to charge her for _that_? “I swatted your hand away!”

He gives her a flat look, pointing to the discolored patch of skin on the outside of his eye. “You hit me with your purse.”

"Not on purpose! I was trying to…scare you off," she finishes lamely.

In her defense, he _had_ looked as though he was about to search her—bodily. And aside from a tin star, she wasn’t even sure he was a _real_ sheriff instead of one of those creeps who pretend to be officers so they can accost helpless women. The man dresses like he’s one of the finalists in the Hunger Games with those shabby corduroy pants, worn-out long sleeve shirt covered with an equally worn vest, accessorized with a fringed neckerchief. Top off the look with a stubbly beard, and no, "clean-cut trustworthy policeman" does not come to mind. (Though, she grudgingly admits he wears the beard well.)

This is not looking good for her. Time to try another tactic. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It really was an accident.”

He raises a brow. “Apology accepted.”

She blows out a sigh of relief. “Does that mean you’re dropping the assault charge?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “It means I forgive you,” he says. “As for the assault charge, however, you’ll have to plead your case at your arraignment.”

He. Is. _Impossible_. She rattles the bars in frustration before letting them go. “And when will that be?”

"Tomorrow afternoon." His mouth stretches in a wide grin. "That is, if the judge is back from his camping trip in time."

She very nearly screams. Instead, she closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. At least she still has a phone call.

"I don’t know about you," he says, drawing her attention back to him, "but I’m famished. What shall we order for lunch? Oh, and I’m Robin, by the way."

This is going to be a very _long_ twenty-four hours.


	2. On Your Own Recognizance

He gives her the call after lunch (a passable burger from a place called Granny’s Diner). It’s not her phone—because her carrier doesn’t have good coverage here and apparently it’s evidence; he gives her his cell instead. She’s tempted to wipe out his contact list out of spite, but he’d probably press charges for that, too.

“Hello?”

Regina almost sags in relief at the familiar voice. “Henry.”

“Mom!” he exclaims on the other end. “Where are you? Are you okay? Whose phone are you using?”

She smiles at the flood of questions; she’s missed him. “I’m all right,” she reassures him when he pauses for breath. “I’ve been delayed for a day—” she glowers in Robin’s direction (he’s back to reading his book), “—but I’m fine. Can you please put Emma on?”

“Okay,” Henry replies, and she likes, just a little, that he’s disappointed that he can’t talk to her more. “Love you, Mom.”

“Love you, too.”

There’s a muffled noise on the other end and then: “I take it from Henry’s side of the conversation that there’s been a hiccup.”

“You could say that.” Another glare at the sheriff. “I’ve had a misunderstanding with local law enforcement.”

Robin snorts, and she rolls her eyes._ Of course_ he’s listening in.

“How bad is it?” Emma asks.

“Minor. But if you could call my attorney and have him send someone to…” She trails off, trying to remember the name of this pathetic little town.

“Storybrooke,” Robin supplies as he turns a page.

“Storybrooke,” she repeats through gritted teeth, “in Maine—by tomorrow.”

“Yeah, sure,” Emma replies. “I’ll keep Henry until you get back. Anything else?”

“No.” Regina hesitates before adding, “Thank you.” The words feel unnatural to say—at least, to Emma. They’ve come a long way.

There’s a pause on the other end. “No problem.” Click.

She waves Robin’s phone at him. “Finished.”

He takes his time getting up from his chair and crossing the room. “Son, is it?” he asks. His calloused fingers briefly graze hers as he takes the device, and she jerks her hand back.

“Yes,” she answers. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“True.” He nods, leans against the bars as he pockets his cell. “How old?”

She’s a venture capitalist, worked with a myriad of insufferable people, but she thinks this guy might be the most irritating, obstinate man she’s ever had the (dis)pleasure of crossing paths with. “I thought I made it clear that it’s none of your business.”

“You did,” he agrees. “I’ve got a boy, myself—Roland. Recently turned five. He certainly keeps me on my toes.”

“How nice for you,” she returns with a brittle smile. She wonders if he suffers from some kind of developmental disorder where he can’t process social cues. Or is this that so-called small town charm where everyone is sickly pleasant to one another. (“Why yes, I’ve just arrested you and put you behind bars, but let’s be friends, shall we?”) No. Just no.

He opens his mouth but is interrupted—thank_ god_—by the door opening. “Speak of the devil,” he says with a wide grin, stepping away from the bars.

A tiny person with a mop of dark hair hurtles toward the sheriff, hollering at the top of his little lungs, “Daddy!” Robin captures the boy, lifts him to his hip, and Regina feels a bit nostalgic for the days when Henry was as small—when he thought she hung the moon.

“We thought we’d stop by,” says a woman at the threshold, “before we headed over to the docks.” She’s petite with short, dark hair and has the kind of homespun, girl-next-door aura which has always rubbed Regina the wrong way.

“Thank you, Mary Margaret,” Robin says before turning to his son. (What was his name again? Roland.) “And how was school today?”

“Good!” Roland answers enthusiastically. “I learned ‘c’ for cat! Meow! And Callie ate the paint again. It was funny!” He laughs, and it is utterly disarming—especially paired with those adorable dimples which he obviously got from his father.

“That_ is_ funny,” Robin agrees. “Though probably not very good for her tummy.” He pokes Roland in the belly, and the boy squeals with more laughter.

“It’s yucky!” Roland makes a gagging sound, and then stops abruptly when he lays eyes on Regina. “Daddy,” he asks in a hushed voice, “you got a prisoner?”

Robin chuckles. “No, Regina is a guest.” He winks at her as if this were all some joke. She doesn’t find it funny.

“Hi,” Roland says to her. “Do you want to come play pirates with me and Killian?”

The boy _is_ cute, and it’s certainly not his fault that his father is incredibly annoying, therefore Regina smiles at him. He reminds her of Henry at this age, when her son believed that strangers were merely friends he hadn’t met yet. She remembers the pervasive fear that Henry would happily walk off with some miscreant who offered him candy or a puppy, and she wonders if Robin ever worries about that. Probably not in a town like this where everyone knows everyone.

“Not today, little man,” Robin answers for her.

“Your father and I have some business to attend to,” Regina replies, trying very hard not to glare at Robin. “Thank you for the offer.”

Roland pouts. “Okay,” he says with all the weight of a disappointed five-year-old. “You can come play with me in the morning.”

Robin laughs, shaking his head. “I’m afraid you’ve got school in the morning.”

“_After_ school,” Roland counters. Clearly he inherited his father’s stubborn streak. Heaven help the rest of the world.

“We’ll talk about it later.” Robin sets him down on the ground. “Now, you mustn’t keep Killian waiting. Off you go.”

“Bye bye, Daddy!” Roland gives his father a kiss on the cheek. “Bye, Gina!” He waves furiously before dashing toward Mary Margaret.

Robin watches his son leave with a fondness that Regina recognizes, though it galls her that she would have _anything_ in common with this man.

“He’s sweet.” The words leave her mouth before she can think better of it. Because the last thing she wants to do is initiate a friendly conversation.

“He’s my world,” Robin says with a wistful smile. He turns to her. “I imagine you know what that’s like.”

Yes, she does, but she’s not going to admit that to him. “It was nice of your wife to bring him by,” she deflects.

Robin frowns. “Mary Margaret? Oh, no. She’s Roland’s teacher. I’m—” He hesitates, brows furrowing as though he’s not quite sure how to explain. “I’m a single father. I’m not married.”

There’s something in the way his voice catches that implies a deeper backstory, but she doesn’t ask. She’s determined not to succumb to some twisted form of Stockholm Syndrome. It doesn’t matter that he seems like a good father and an authentically nice (if aggravating) person; he _locked her up_. And that is simply unforgivable.

“And you?” he asks. “Is Henry’s father in the picture?”

She rolls her eyes. If this man has his way, they’ll be braiding each other’s hair and painting each other’s fingernails by dinner. “I adopted Henry.”

“That’s really admirable.”

And he means it. Not in the “what a beautiful story; you’ll be a shoo-in for some charity award or another which will humanize your image” PR kind of way, either. He is looking at her with actual admiration, as if he knows she didn’t bring Henry into her life as an accessory to be put away with nannies and boarding schools and only let out for photo-ops. As if he knows that she was the one who was up all night with Henry, that she changed all of his diapers—even if that meant cutting meetings short (God help the idiot who made the comment about mothers in the workplace, too), that she has only ever shared him with Emma—and only because _he_ wanted to know his birth mother. As if he knows that Regina hadn’t signed the adoption papers out of altruism, but because she needed Henry more than he needed her, that he changed her and continues to inspire her to be a better person.

“Yes, well,” she says. “He’s my son.” It’s so much more than that, but she suspects Robin understands—which, of course, annoys her all the more.

He nods gravely and steps away from the cell finally, and it appears like he’s done tormenting her with small talk. He picks up his book from the desk, but doesn’t sit down in his chair. “I’ve got to do my rounds, now,” he says (as if she cares). “I’ll be gone for a few hours. You’ll be all right?”

She looks heavenward. Does he think she’s going to hurt herself? Please. “Somehow I will survive without your dazzling company.”

He grins, completely unfazed by her sarcasm, and crosses the room to her. “It can get quite boring in here,” he says, pushing his book through the bars. “Just don’t lose my place.”

She scowls at the novel before taking it—because the man would probably stand there all day until she did. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He leaves with a laugh, and Regina is thankful for the silence.

For the first twenty minutes.

It takes another ten before she decides to risk infectious disease by sitting on the dusty cot. She holds out for thirty more minutes before picking up the novel. _Great Expectations_ by Charles Dickens. Not exactly what she expected from a scruffy small town sheriff—not that she’s impressed. Hardly.

She turns to where he’s marked his place. The bookmark is a strip of lace-edged fabric in a protective plastic sleeve with a quote from Francis Bacon stitched in delicate needlepoint. “Read not to contradict or refute…but to weigh and consider.” The ribbon dangling off the end is worn and faded—once a deep periwinkle, she thinks. It’s decidedly feminine, not his, not originally. A keepsake from a late mother? Sister? Wife? Unsettled by the last thought, she closes the book, drops it on the cot.

It’s not that the idea of him being a widower, coupled with the brief image of his unfettered joy with his son, makes him more than the two-dimensional brute who threw her into jail over a measly expired license. (And speeding and assault—a dubious charge at best.) No, she’s bothered by thought that they might share _more_ than being single parents. She doesn’t want to have any kind of affinity with someone so unsophisticated and rustic.

She paces the cell until her legs tire—until her heels blister her feet—but she doesn’t pick up the book again.

She’s sitting on the cot once more, back propped against the wall, when he returns, shadows painted long in the office by the receding sunlight in the windows. He says nothing, and she doesn’t look at him, not until she hears the jangle of keys followed by the clank of the lock on her cell.

The door opens with a loud screech, and she glances up at him with a raised brow.

He gives her a small bow. “Shall we, milady?”

“You’re dropping the charges?” she asks, incredulous.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I thought you might like to have dinner outside of these confines.”

Oh. She purses her lips, thinks of telling him thanks but no thanks, but after a day spent in this dingy cell, she doesn’t have it in her to be _that_ stubborn. “And you’re not worried about having a dangerous fugitive on the loose?”

He makes a sound between a laugh and snort. “Considering that your vehicle has been impounded, and I have all of your things,” he says, “and the next town is more than fifty miles away with nothing but forest between, I’d wager you’re not much of a flight risk.” His gaze dips down her form, stopping at her feet. “Not in those shoes.”

Scowling, she rises from the cot, picks up the book as an afterthought. She shoves it into his chest as she passes him. “Not my kind of novel.” Lie. Complete _lie_.

He smirks as if he knows it, too. “Pity.”

He takes her to Granny’s Diner—apparently the only restaurant in this sinkhole. Either that or the only place he’s willing to patronize. Once they are ensconced in a corner booth—all eyes following them discreetly and not-so-discreetly—a buxom young waitress sidles up to their table.

“Hey, Sheriff,” she says with a wide grin. “Who’s your pretty friend?”

Regina glares at her.

“Ruby, this is Regina Mills,” he answers. “She’s gotten into a bit of a spot on her way home, and she’ll be staying in town for a day or two.”

“Oh, hon,” Ruby says with sympathy written all over her overly made-up face. “If you need anything, let me know, okay?”

Regina orders the most expensive thing on the menu (some pedestrian meal called “surf and turf”). Robin finds that funny—just like everything else. She has the fleeting thought of clawing his eyes out.

“If you think we’re going to swap life stories,” she explains after their food arrives, “you’re mistaken. I don’t do the touchy-feely thing.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” Robin leans forward, elbows on the table. “It’s been my experience that people who put up walls do so because they feel things more deeply than the rest of us—or they’ve experienced tragedy. Or both.”

She really, _really_ doesn’t like him and his presumptuous opinions. She gives him a flat look. “Don’t tell me you’re the town psychologist, too.”

“I did own a pub for a couple of years back in England,” he says, “but I leave the therapy to Doctor Hopper now.”

“How generous of you.” She looks away from him, concentrates on her dinner (the garlic mashed potatoes are actually pretty good), hoping he’ll get the message that she’s not in the mood for conversation.

It’s a futile hope.

“Husband or fiancé?” he asks between bites of chicken.

She sets down her fork and knife, interlaces her fingers beneath her chin and levels a sardonic expression at him. “Isn’t it a conflict of interest to hit on the woman you’ve brought charges against?”

He drags his teeth over his bottom lip and smiles. (He _definitely_ knows he’s attractive, flirty bastard.) “I’ll admit that I’m probably not the most qualified man to be sheriff. The law and I have always had a very tenuous relationship,” he says. “But I wasn’t actually hitting on you. I was asking if the person you lost was your husband or fiancé.”

She stares at him for several breaths. _Un_believable. “Fiancé, twelve years ago,” she answers because he’s like a dog with a bone and won’t shut up otherwise. “My mother died last week, and we had a complicated relationship. Do you want to pry into that, too?”

Robin raises his hands in surrender. “I apologize, milady. I meant no offense.”

“I bet.” She sucks in a deep breath. “I don’t know what you’re hoping for, but we’re not anything alike.”

He bites his lip again. (It’s really becoming rude.) “I think you’d be surprised. I happen to—”

He’s interrupted by the jangle of the bells hanging from the door and a squeal of “Daddy!” Roland comes barreling down the aisle and leaps into his father’s lap. Another man follows in his wake, tall and in all black with the kind of swagger of someone who’s usually up to no good. The aforementioned Killian, she presumes.

“We sailed the high seas,” he announces (this one’s British, too), leaning against the booth near her, “and our little pirate made Smee walk the plank.”

“Arr, me matey!” Roland pipes in.

“It was a victorious afternoon of plundering and looting, if I do say—” Killian stops when he sees Regina. The smile he gives her would probably make a lesser woman swoon. “Oh hello, love. What’s your name?”

“Not interested,” she replies.

Killian clasps his chest as though stricken. “Ouch.”

“That’s a new record, mate,” Robin says, and he’s beaming as if he’s proud of her.

“She’s name is Gina!” Roland interjects (un)helpfully. “And she’s a guest.” He drops to a whisper and adds, “But she was in the jail.”

“_Her_ name is _Re_gina,” Robin corrects, ears turning pink. “And she’s just passing through town. Don’t you have a deck to swab?”

Killian gives him a crooked grin. “Aye,” he says. “I know when I’m not wanted. Enjoy yourselves.” He winks at Robin before making his way to the breakfast bar.

Ruby swoops over seconds later and ruffles Roland’s hair. “Hey kid,” she says. “Granny’s got some Mac n’ Cheese for you at the counter. Why don’t you hang out with me while your Daddy and his friend visit, okay?”

Roland looks at Regina, frown turning his little mouth down before finally relenting. “Okay,” he says. “Daddy, can Gina come at our house after dinner? I want to show her my new game on the frog pad.”

“Leap pad,” Robin says with a chuckle. “And we’ll talk about it.”

“Yay!” Roland cheers as he skips off with Ruby.

“You do realize,” Regina says when they’re alone again, “that he thinks you said yes.”

Robin sighs, rubbing a hand across his eyes. “I know. I make quite a lot of bad parenting choices in the name of avoiding inconvenient temper tantrums.”

“We’ve all been there.” She’s not quite sure why she’s admitting this to him. Probably because he’s the first _real_ single parent she’s talked to in a long time. Emma doesn’t count; the woman entered the picture less than a year ago when Henry was already half-raised.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m bungling the whole thing,” Robin says. “I’m making up everything as I go.”

She knows the feeling, but the discussion is getting uncomfortably close to being comfortable—and on the cusp of turning into a Survivors with Children mini-support group. Because a question about his (late?) wife is dangling precariously on the tip of her tongue. She swallows it back.

“You mentioned that you have a tenuous relationship with the law,” she says instead.

It takes him a second to catch up to the change in topic, and when he does, he cringes. “I did, didn’t I?” He leans back in his seat. “If you must know, I used to be a thief—a very good one, in fact.”

Now, that’s interesting. “And they let a felon become sheriff?”

“I’ve never actually been caught,” he says with more pride than shame. “That was a long time ago, before—”

“Roland,” she finishes for him.

“Marian, actually—my wife.” There’s pain in his expression when he says her name, but it’s more like an old wound that will never fully heal—one he’s learned to live with. (One Regina knows all too well.) “She saw in me a better man than I was, and here I am.”

Regina can’t say the same thing about Daniel, at least not after his death. She _was_ better with him, but when he was taken from her, she shut down. She became cold, vengeful, angry. Like her mother. Henry has been her saving grace, though she will never be the same naïve, open young woman she once was, full of hope and romanticism.

She picks at her food, shaking the morose thoughts from her mind. She’s not hungry anymore, but neither is she anxious to return to her cell and the grimy cot that awaits her. “Thief to sheriff is quite a transformation,” she says, steering the conversation clear of the minefield of late loved ones.

“An accidental transformation, truth be told,” he replies. “The old sheriff was rather corrupt. I exposed him, and well, apparently that made me the best candidate to replace him.”

Silence falls between them; she’s not interested enough to ask more questions. (Lies. She’s _too_ interested, and it concerns her.) She thinks of her lawyer coming tomorrow, ponders how they might come up with a strategy to get the charges dropped or reduced. She thinks of Henry, wonders if Emma has him stuffed full of pizza and soda by now—the woman doesn’t have a domestic bone in her body. As a career woman, Regina isn’t exactly Suzy Homemaker either, but she at least knows how to cook.

“I am sorry to hear about your mother, by the way,” Robin says, interrupting her musings. “Complicated relationship or not, it’s never easy to lose a parent.”

Regina blinks, caught off guard by the sincere condolence. She doesn’t thank him. She doesn’t say anything. Because their dialogue is starting to feel like a game of Whack-a-Mole. Every time she shoots down a friendly overture from him, he’s back with another. He’s determined to make some kind of connection with her—though she can hardly guess _why_—and she’s determined not to like him. (He’s succeeding; she’s failing, much to her chagrin.)

“I’m ready to return to my prison cell, Warden,” she says, dropping her napkin on the table.

The look he gives her is…unreadable. Not disappointment. Perplexed? Not quite. Sad? No. Not angry, exasperated, or long-suffering. She only knows he’s not entirely pleased with her announcement, for whatever reason. (Why is she bothering to discern his expression? That’s the real question.)

“If that’s what you want.”

He pulls out his wallet, leaves some cash on the table before sliding out of the booth. He holds a hand out to her, ostensibly to help her up, but she rises on her own. She nods for him to lead the way, and he shakes his head with a soft laugh.

He has a quick word with Ruby and Roland’s jubilant “Bye Gina! I see you in the morning!” echoes in the busy diner as Robin ushers Regina outside.

He doesn’t take her to the sheriff’s-station-slash-jail, though. Instead, he walks down Main Street, cutting into a pathway shrouded with overhanging branches and thick shrubbery. She is hesitant to follow him, but curiosity wins out in the end.

“Is this where you kill me and dismember my body?” she asks.

He turns around and gives her a measuring look—a _lingering_ measuring look. “I believe it more likely that you’d mete out _my_ demise long before I made my bumbling attempt.”

She grins before she can catch herself. “True.”

He gives her a beatific smile in return, and there’s an odd sort of flutter in her stomach. (That’s inconvenient.) He gestures beyond the path toward a large house—not quite a mansion but almost. “Your castle, milady,” he says, “at least for the night.”

There’s a sign hanging over the door. Granny’s Bed & Breakfast. Did the woman own the whole town? Or was the place rife with geriatrics? “I don’t understand.”

He fishes something out of his pocket—a key—and hands it to her. “Granny upgraded you at no extra charge to a room with a view of the town square,” he explains. “I hear it’s a favorite.” When she continues to stare at him, he adds, “Unless you’d rather have the cot. That would certainly save me some money.”

She turns the key over in her hand. It’s attached to a beautiful keychain of ravens in flight. “You paid for the room? For _me_?”

He shrugs. “I did put you out by arresting you. Seemed like the decent thing to do.”

She doesn’t know what to make of this—of _him_. It _is_ a nice gesture, too nice. And it’s unfamiliar (and discomfiting). “Am I supposed to thank you?”

“A simple ‘thank you’ would suffice, yes.” He does that lip-bite thing again, and oh god, he’s flirting with her. And what the hell is up with all the sudden commotion in her belly over it? “I’ll leave you to get settled, then. Have a good night, Regina.”

She doesn’t move as he turns to leave—because though he’s said her name before, this time it’s _different_. Like hope. Like a promise. And it’s utterly ridiculous. She’s known the man for all of eight hours, and after tomorrow, she’ll be on her way back to Boston. He knows that, too.

Halfway down the path, he spins on his heel and strides toward her, and if her stomach was full of butterflies before, they’ve multiplied a hundredfold now. He stops just inside the invisible boundary of her personal space. Her imagination flares to life, supplying her with the image of him closing the rest of the distance, knotting his fingers in her hair and—

Whoa, whoa, whoa. No. _No_. Not even in the realm of possibility.

What exactly was in her dinner? Love Potion No. 9?

“I apologize if I’m being forward,” he says, “but would you care to have breakfast with Roland and myself tomorrow?”

She would say no—she _should_ say no, but she thinks of the dimpled little boy who was so optimistic about spending time with her “in the morning.” Really, it’s an underhanded tactic, using his son against her. It works, of course. “Okay.”

“Brilliant.” More lip biting. More smiling. More everything he should be banned from doing in her presence, she decides. “I’ll fetch you around eight.” He holds her gaze (also not allowed) for a beat before retreating.

“Robin,” she calls before he disappears. His name on her tongue tastes foreign and familiar at the same time. That’s a bad, _bad_ sign—flashing “DANGER” in bright, neon letters.

“Yes?” He raises a brow.

Better nip this in the bud before he gets the wrong idea. “This wasn’t a date.”

His brows furrow, though there’s still a hint of a smile curving the corners of his mouth. “I never implied otherwise.”

“And tomorrow,” she clarifies, “that’s not a date, either.”

His expression becomes mock sincerity. “Of course not.” He gives her a wink. “See you in the morning, _Gina_.”

When she gets to her room, she finds all of her things waiting for her—her suitcase, her purse, her phone. Even her wallet (minus her expired license). He trusts her not to slip town. He treats her like a regular person instead of a ball-busting tycoon to be feared or vanquished.

Oh, yeah. She’s in _big_ trouble.


	3. Conflict of Interest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably mention that this is not a slow-burn story. :P

Regina wakes at six a.m.

She always wakes at six a.m. Mornings helping Henry get ready for school, breakfasts together as they discuss whatever has caught his fancy (lately fairy tales), are sacrosanct. Business is never predictable, and there are days that she’s stuck at the office later than planned because of an emergency international conference call, but between the hours of six and seven-thirty in the morning, her only job is being a mother. She cherishes it.

She misses it now as she slides out of an unfamiliar bed and crosses the room to pull back the curtain. The lauded view of the town square leaves much to be desired, most of it shrouded in grey mist. A clock tower rises across the intersection, the time stuck at 8:15. Strange. Someone should probably see to that.

She sighs, letting the curtain fall closed. She thinks about calling Henry, to hear his voice, but ultimately dismisses the idea. Even though Robin returned her phone with the rest of her things, her coverage is still spotty. In fact, “spotty” is being generous. She glances at the antiquated rotary phone on the nightstand and decides it’s not worth it. By this afternoon, she’ll be on her way home anyway.

It only takes her thirty minutes to ready herself for her impending breakfast with the sheriff and his son (_not_ a date, thank you very much), and shy of perusing the year-old gossip rag that sits collecting dust on the small desk, there’s nothing to do as she waits. No emails to answer—not without her 4G access or even wifi. What kind of bed and breakfast doesn’t have wifi? No calls to return. No…_anything_. Just quiet reflection—which is something that Regina does not do.

Not for the first time since she was pulled over for speeding, Regina curses her decision to keep her mother’s car rather than sell it. Cora was never particularly sentimental, and there weren’t any keepsakes from Regina’s less-than-stellar childhood worth lugging back to Boston. Regina likes to believe she isn’t sentimental either, not about her mother, but as she thinks about the sleek black BMW currently in whatever this podunk town uses as an impound, well, the proof is in the pudding. She took the least personal item Cora owned as a tangible remembrance and spun the idea as practical. Cora would have told her she was being ridiculous. Of course, Cora had believed eschewing more fiscally beneficial romantic entanglements for the sake of a “country bumpkin horse trainer” to be ridiculous, too. Not to mention the “folly” of adopting Henry while in the throes of grief over the aforementioned horse trainer. Good god, why had Regina kept _anything_ of Cora’s? Let alone a vehicle that had ultimately landed her in her current lousy predicament.

This. This is the very reason that Regina avoids meditation.

She feels itchy, like her skin is too tight. Like the air in the room has suddenly become arid and chalky. She glances at the clock by the bed, scowling at it when the numbers cheerfully proclaim 6:53 a.m. in a cherry red glow. More than an hour to go still. This is almost as unbearable as being stuck behind bars the day before as Robin made his rounds. Not that she missed his scintillating company then—nor does she miss it now (she _doesn’t_). No, it’s only that twiddling her thumbs has never been in her DNA.

With an exasperated huff, she dons both coat and scarf. She doesn’t have the first clue where she’ll go as she locks the door behind her, she just needs to be _out_. She’ll find her way back to the bed and breakfast before Robin comes for her.

The early morning fog has lifted, curling back to reveal an azure sky marred by a few puffy white clouds. It’s going to be a beautiful spring day, if not entirely warm, and she’s reminded of the odd weekend when she would chase a younger Henry through playgrounds. She hasn’t reveled in the outdoors, not like she did years ago when she used to crave the rush of wind through her hair as she urged her prize stallion into a full gallop. That part of her had died with Daniel—among other things.

She really, _really_ does not care for all of these uninvited ruminations. The sooner she’s back in Boston, distracted by work and Henry, the better.

There are a few people milling about on the main road. Shop owners unlocking stores. Others meandering toward one destination or another in a sleepy gait. Every person who lays eyes on her greets her with a smile and nod. She feels like she’s inadvertently walked into a Hallmark movie. The friendly ambience is unnatural, and it has her wandering toward a less populated area—some park hidden behind a copse of trees.

She takes up residence on the bench across from the pond, and as she watches the ducks bathing in the clear water, she chases away any thought that comes suspiciously close to being contemplative. Simply _being_ is a challenge, too. But at least empty-headed staring off into the distance doesn’t come with a bucket full of regrets or conflicting emotions regarding a scruffy (handsome) law enforcement officer she only met yesterday.

She rolls her eyes. Talk about unasked-for reflection. She vehemently refuses to think about how close he stood to her when he invited her out to breakfast, or how her imagination quickly filled the gap between them with an image of his lips on—

Stop it. Stop. It.

She needs to get out of this town. Now.

“Oh, sorry! I hope I’m not intruding.”

Regina glances up at the feminine voice. She recognizes Roland’s school teacher. Mary something.

The other woman gives her a syrupy “I’m such a genuinely nice person that even the birds sing for me” smile. “I usually come to feed the ducks in the morning,” she says, holding up a half-loaf of bread, “but if you want to be alone, I can come back later.”

Regina shakes her head. “Don’t let me interrupt your routine.” She pulls out her phone and checks the time. She should probably start making her way back to the little inn.

“Regina, right?” The younger woman holds out a hand to shake. “I’m Mary Margaret.” That’s right. The pretty little mouthful of an ingénue name suits her to a T.

“Regina Mills.” Regina takes Mary Margaret’s proffered hand, though she doesn’t have any intention of making her acquaintance. What would be the point?

“How long are you here for?” Mary Margaret asks as if she hadn’t seen Regina behind bars less than twenty-four hours ago.

“Just this morning.” God willing.

Mary Margaret’s grin falters. “That’s too bad,” she says. “We don’t get a lot of visitors in Storybrooke. It’s kind of nice to see a fresh face.”

Forget Hallmark movie. This is starting to feel more like a cult. “Yes, well,” Regina replies with a thin smile, “this fresh face has a life to get back to.”

“Right.” Mary Margaret nods. “Of course.”

Seconds tick past before Regina decides now is probably the best time for a graceful exit. “I have to go,” she says. “Have fun with the ducks.”

And just like that, Mary Margaret is beaming again. “I will, thank you. And I hope the rest of your short visit here is pleasant.” She’s unreal, like a princess out of a Disney feature film.

Regina replies with a half-hearted wave before trudging toward the smattering of buildings that make up this tiny hamlet hidden in the hills of Maine. A few more people grace the streets now, still moving in a dilatory pace as if they have all day to get to where they’re going. Still nodding at her as if she is just another resident. It’s downright creepy, all this _niceness_. She ignores the reasonable-sounding voice in her head which mentions casually that this would be a good place to raise a child.

Robin is standing outside of the bed and breakfast, phone against his ear as he rakes a hand through his hair. Roland is hopping up the steps and down again, oversized Spiderman bag flopping against his back. He’s the first to see her.

“Regina!” he shouts happily, barreling at her in a dead run until he’s hugging her legs. He’s finally gotten her name right, and she most certainly is _not_ feeling nostalgic for when he called her “Gina” literally just yesterday. (That would be absurd.)

She tousles his hair, heart swelling. He is the bright spot amidst all this craziness. Henry would adore him. “Hello, little man.”

“You run’d away, but you came back!” he exclaims into her pencil skirt, keeping his tight grip on her.

Robin joins them as he pockets his phone. He’s grinning at her, not solely out of relief either, but as if he’s as glad to see her as his son is—and that’s a problem. Because her heart is suddenly and irrationally determined to beat out a rousing concerto. She doesn’t even _know_ the man, for pity’s sake.

“Did you think I skipped town?” She smirks to cover her disconcerting attraction to him.

Robin shrugs. “You _are_ wearing more sensible shoes today.” With a canted brow, he glances at her footwear—boots with a short heel.

Against her better judgment, she huffs a soft laugh. “I like to keep my options open.” This is not flirting, this banter. It’s _not_.

By the lopsided grin that stretches the corner of his mouth, apparently Robin is not getting the memo. “You’re going to keep me on my toes, aren’t you?” he asks, sounding for all the world as though he likes the prospect as he extricates his son from her legs. “Shall we?”

“Yay!” Roland grabs his father’s hand and then hers, swinging their arms forward as he drags them toward the main square. “I want pancakes!”

Regina laughs with Robin, but her mirth stutters to a halt when their eyes meet over Roland’s mop of curls. Like a bolt of lightning, it strikes her how domestic and familial this moment has become. And it’s wrong, all _wrong_. They’re strangers. She shouldn’t feel this acute connection to either of them. She shouldn’t enjoy this. She doesn’t. She can’t. It’s impossible.

She looks away—because Robin is biting his lip, giving her a measuring gaze as if she’s a puzzle he wants to piece together. As if he’s come to the same startling conclusion and he’s deciding whether he likes the picture the pair of them make with his son between them.

She squeezes Roland’s hand, asks the boy what kind of pancakes he likes. Roland enthusiastically explains that he likes the blueberry kind, especially when Granny makes a smiley face with whipped cream. Their discussion moves on to school and the antics of the infamous paint-eating Callie. As Roland recounts the time she drew pictures on everyone’s faces with a marker that didn’t wash off, Regina pities the girl’s parents. (And maybe Mary Margaret, too.)

She keeps the conversation going, encouraging Roland to expound on anything and everything his disjointed kindergarten mind can conjure as they enter Granny’s Diner (of course it’s Granny’s Diner again; shock of shocks). This chat is easy. Safe. For a moment she can pretend that Robin isn’t staring at her in her periphery and that her stomach isn’t performing an unscheduled gymnastics event in response.

What is wrong with her?

The same waitress from the night before—Ruby, from her nametag—takes their order, but not without giving both Robin and Regina a significant look with a sly grin. Wonderful. In fact, nearly everyone in the small establishment is casting a painfully obvious glance in their direction when Ruby returns with a pot of coffee and some orange juice for Roland. Regina’s likely going to be the gossip of the town for the next year. Even better.

“Roland,” Robin says, interrupting his son’s in-depth treatise on the virtues of Team Umizoomi—just after their meals arrive, “did you know that Regina has a boy like you?”

Roland’s dark eyes round with surprise as he looks at her. “You do?” he asks in almost a whisper. “What’s his name? Is he in kindergarten too?”

She smiles. “I do, but Henry is too big for kindergarten. He’s eleven.” It occurs to her that Robin has managed to finagle more personal information out of her. This is the second time he’s used his son against her, and the bastard is smirking at her. He knows he’s playing dirty. She purses her lips, glowers at him in return. One way or another, he’ll pay for that. He smiles wider as if inviting her to make good on her unspoken threat. (This is not flirting, either. Not even the tiniest bit.)

“How come Henry’s not with you?” Roland asks, oblivious to the silent exchange going on between his two chaperones.

The question inspires a pang of regret. She should have brought Henry with her. “He had to go to school.” That’s not the whole truth, though. She used that excuse when Henry begged to join her on this trip, but in reality, she had mixed feelings about attending her mother’s funeral in the first place. She wasn’t ready to sate his curiosity about her formative years. Her life has been far from a beautiful fairy tale.

“Oh,” Roland says, placated by her explanation.

“Speaking of school,” Robin interjects, reaching over to cut up Roland’s pancakes, “you had better finish your breakfast or else you’re going to be late.”

Obediently, Roland digs in, making adorable noises of contentment as he licks whipped cream off of his fork. For the next few minutes, the only sounds are the clanking of silverware against plates as Robin and Regina make quick work of their own meals. (Egg white omelet and a bowl of fresh fruit for her, scrambled eggs and bacon with rye toast for him.) She can feel the weight of his gaze straying to her, but she doesn’t look at him—not until he addresses her.

“Did you sleep all right last night?” he asks.

She snorts. “Better than I would have in the cell.” She sobers when she remembers the reason she didn’t have to curl up on that unsanitary cot. “Thank you.” This is an unusual oxymoron—expressing gratitude to the man for giving her a decent place to stay for the night when he was the one who locked her up in the first place.

“As I said,” he replies with a genuine smile, “it was the least I could do.” His hand is resting on the table, dangerously close to hers, and he brushes her knuckle with a fingertip. The touch is brief—hardly a tap—and yet, her arms are prickling with goosebumps. So _incredibly_ inconvenient.

She draws her hand back, takes a sip of her coffee to recover (chagrined that she needs to recover in the first place). “Yes, it was,” she says. “And now, if you could see about getting those trumped-up charges dropped…”

He does that lip-biting thing again and laughs. “You’re impressively single-minded,” he replies. “Fortunately for the good people of Storybrooke, I’m not so easily swayed.”

She didn’t think he would be, but—“You can’t blame me for trying.”

“No, I can’t,” he agrees, glancing at his watch. “And on that note, it’s time to get this fellow to the bus stop.” He dabs Roland’s cheeks with a napkin, cleaning away evidence of whipped cream and syrup and orange juice. Roland scrunches his nose at his father’s ministrations, and the scene is so lovely that it makes Regina’s chest ache.

“I want Regina to take me to the bus,” Roland announces as they slide out of the booth. He twines his fingers with hers to make his demand further known.

Robin nods with the practiced gravity of a parent speaking to a young child. “Would you mind terribly if I tagged along?”

“Okay,” Roland relents unenthusiastically. “You can come.” And then he’s leading Regina out of the diner before Robin can pay for their meal. (She should be concerned about letting him foot the bill—because, again, not a date—but he did arrest her after all. He has a lot to make up for.)

Their intended destination is only a block away, but it’s enough time for Roland to regal her with his sailing experiences with Killian—who is secretly Captain Hook. Remembering her introduction to the swarthy man at dinner, she asks about his lack of a missing hand. Roland rolls his eyes as if that’s the silliest question in the world. He tells her that the crocodile hasn’t “bite’d” Killian yet (“duh!”), and Robin admonishes his son to be more respectful in his tone, especially speaking to a lady. (“Sorry, Regina.”)

When the bus pulls next to the curb, Roland spins to face her, young features screwed up in a serious expression. “Next time, can Henry come?” he asks. “I want to play with him.”

And Regina’s heart sinks. She’ll be gone soon—likely before he even gets out of school—and they’ll continue on with their separate lives, never to cross paths again. The thought shouldn’t feel as tragic as it does.

“We’ll see,” Robin says, saving her from having to dash his son’s hopes. He squats down to give Roland a hug. “Be good for Miss Blanchard.”

Roland becomes limp in his father’s arms, head lolling back as he whines, “You say that every day!”

“That’s because I want you to be good every day,” Robin explains with a laugh.

“I _am_!” Roland wiggles out of Robin’s embrace, and winds his arms around Regina’s waist. “Bye!” He’s bounding onto the bus before she can tell him goodbye (for good—and ouch, how that _hurts_).

Robin closes the gap between them as the bus rolls away. He’s standing entirely too close to her—what is his deal with personal space?—smelling like soap and something woodsy. It’s the raw, male combination that awakens that Cro-Magnon he-man meets she-woman synapse in her brain which evolution hasn’t fully culled out. She takes a step back from him, despite the instinct to lean into him and soak up that masculine scent. She will not be undone by her pituitary gland.

“It seems my son is quite taken with you,” Robin says with what she’s beginning to believe is his signature half-smile.

She almost admits that she might be just as taken with his dimpled little boy, but it’s becoming painful enough knowing the tenuous bond between them will be irrevocably broken in a matter of hours. “He’s a sweet child,” is what she offers instead.

“Thank you. I’m rather fond of him.” Robin blows out a sigh as he looks her over. “I have a surprise for you.”

Regina raises her brows. “I’m not a fan of surprises.”

“I think you’ll like this one.” He winks, and she trusts him about as far as she can throw him—which isn’t very far, judging by his sturdy build. “It’s worth the risk.”

“Fine.” She glowers at him. “But if this is some kind of trick—”

“It’s not, I assure you,” he says. “I have no intention of incurring your wrath.”

She presses her lips into a thin line. “If that’s true, then you wouldn’t have thrown me in jail.” Memories of yesterday afternoon flash in her mind. Of him holding up a set of handcuffs and asking if he would have to use them, or if she was going to behave. It was a singularly humiliating experience.

He throws back his head in a hearty laugh. “Touché, milady.” He bows as if conceding the debate to her. “Now, if you would kindly follow me, I will lead you to your _pleasant_ surprise.”

“I’ll reserve my judgment.”

She lets him usher her a few more blocks to a small, squat building between a bridal shop and an ice cream parlor. A post office? A post office. What in the world could be in there that he thinks she could possibly want?

The service desk is manned by a very pregnant girl barely out of high school, if that. She rubs her lower back with one hand while raising her other in greeting. “Good morning, Sheriff. What can I do for you?”

“Hello, Ashley.” Robin pulls his wallet out, slips a rectangle of plastic Regina can’t quite see onto the countertop. “Can we see about updating this?”

Ashley picks up the card and eyes it. “It’s expired,” she says. “And from a different state.” She glances up at Regina. “I’ll need a birth certificate, a social security card, and proof of residency.”

That’s _her_ driver’s license? He’s helping her get a new one? The post office doubles as a DMV? As surprises go, it’s not the worst one she’s had. “I don’t carry my birth certificate and social security card on me, dear. They’re both in Boston—where I live.”

“Ashley,” Robin says, giving the girl a winning smile. “It’s only expired less than two days ago, surely you can overlook the birth certificate requirement, and the social security card—I believe Regina knows her number. As for residency, use my address.”

It’s Regina’s turn to raise an objection, but he speaks over her. “It’s only temporary. You can get a proper one when you return home,” he reasons. “Although, the one from Maine will be good for six years.”

She furrows her brows and decides to ignore his superfluous final comment. “You do realize that you’re giving me the key to my escape.”

“I’ll take my chances.” He tilts his head in concession before turning back to Ashley. “Well?”

The girl behind the counter blows out a sigh, kneading her back again. “I don’t know,” she says. “I could get into big trouble.”

“With whom?” Robin asks. “Me?”

Ashley’s worried expression eases into a shy smile. “Okay,” she says. “But if I get caught, I’m taking you down with me, Sheriff.” She waddles to the back and returns with a stack of forms. “And we’re not skipping the eye exam.”

It’s twenty minutes of filling out paperwork—with Robin providing his home address—then staring into a blocky machine to test her vision, a photograph complete with a blinding flash (Robin tells her to smile; it’s not a mugshot), and Regina has a legal driver’s license again. Albeit, obtained under slightly less than legal means.

“Seems like the new sheriff may be as corrupt as the old one,” she remarks to Robin once they’re outside of the post office DMV.

“I did say that I wasn’t entirely suited to the job, though I hope I’m a better man than he was.” He plucks the ID from her hand and scrutinizes it. “The camera likes you,” he murmurs, passing it back to her.

She is not going to respond to that. At least, not verbally. The capillaries beneath her skin are doing the job well enough. Instead, she studies him as he leads them across town. What is it about this rumpled, provincial man that has her upside-down and backwards? He’s nothing like the sophisticated businessmen who run in her circles. Granted, she doesn’t care for sophisticated businessmen—never has. In fact, if she does a comparative analysis of her decidedly short list of relationships beyond the odd fling, she has to admit that she has a type. From Daniel to Graham (which was really only an acquaintances-with-benefits arrangement) to Robin.

“What’s wrong?” Robin is frowning at her, his hand paused in the act of pushing open the door to the sheriff’s station. “I only have to sign some paperwork. I promise I’m not locking you in a cell again.”

She must have been scowling over the revelation that he’s _exactly_ the right mix of rustic and forthright and disheveled to make her pulse race and her common sense flee. The whole devoted, widowed father to a darling little boy thing is _seriously_ compounding the issue. But of course, she’s not about to confess any of this to him. Let him think she was about to let him have it for tossing her back behind bars.

“At least you know what’s good for you,” she quips as she follows him inside.

“I’m getting an inkling,” he retorts, but there’s amusement in his voice. “I won’t be more than a minute, if you want to have a seat.”

She chooses to tour the small facility. Just two cells, a couple of seventies-style metal desks, and a security system that amounts to a television on a rolling cart plugged into a VCR. It’s kind of pathetic, but on the other hand, there probably isn’t enough crime here to warrant an upgrade. There probably isn’t any crime at all other than the occasional drunk and disorderly.

“All finished.” Robin stands and faces her, leaning against the desk.

“What now?” she asks, making her way back to him from the other side of the room. “Do we get a jump start on my community service?”

He drops his head with a laugh. “Actually, I thought I might give you a tour of our fair town while we wait for Judge Spencer to return.” He looks up at her through his eyelashes. “If you’re amenable, that is.”

A handful of snide comments flicker across her tongue but never quite make it beyond her lips; her heart is beating all of the sarcasm out of her system with an erratic cadence. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.” When his brows pinch together in confusion, she clarifies, “Help me with my license.”

His mouth parts in a silent _ah_. “The judge is more likely to dismiss that complaint with a warning now.”

That leaves the speeding and assault charges. She grudgingly acknowledges that she did earn those, and maybe she should stop trying to get Robin to do a little hand-waving to make them disappear. Her gaze falls to the fading bruise near his eye, and she tries not to cringe. “I really didn’t mean to hit you.” She traces around the mark with tentative fingers. She shouldn’t be touching him. Why is she touching him? His skin is supple and creased with years of smiles.

“It’s nothing.” His tone is soft, husky, and it’s an incantation that flares every nerve-ending in her body to life. The alarm bells in her head from last night go off again in a wild din. Def-Con One of poor decisions is rapidly approaching.

But Robin has her hand before she can withdraw, and he’s closing his eyes as he inhales the perfume she dabbed on the inside of her wrist. The intimacy of it sends a shiver down her spine. This is bad. This is every kind of bad in the history of bad, barring killing puppies and starving children. But the tension—god, the _tension_.

He says her name like a prayer, looks at her as if she is the sun breaking through a cloudy day.

Oh, screw it.

She grasps him by the lapels of his jacket and plants her lips on his in a sloppy, hungry kiss. Which, of course, is a stupid idea. Because this is so good. Too good. And it isn’t near enough to satisfy the escalating hunger snaking through her veins. Because he kisses her back as if he’s finally able to breathe for the first time in years, rather than the mere hours that they’ve known each other.

Hours.

That’s right. They’re practically strangers, and they’re mauling each other like horny teenagers. She doesn’t want to stop. But she should. She needs to.

She pulls back, and he nearly falls into her in a blind attempt to follow. “We can’t do this.” Her statement sounds less like good, sound reasoning and more like a perfunctory disclaimer before one of them says, “But let’s do it anyway.”

“I beg to differ.” He rests his forehead against hers, grinning. “We seem rather capable at this.”

She laughs at his deflection. However, someone has to bring them back to the real world, and since he keeps looking at her lips, she’s going to have to do it. “You arrested me yesterday.”

He hums in agreement, and the sound curls her toes. “Quite possibly the best decision I’ve ever made.”

In the heady wake of that kiss, she’s having trouble arguing against that. Except—“I’m going back to Boston.”

His shoulders sag at her statement. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know we hardly know one another and this is nothing short of madness, but if I may, there can’t be any harm in making the best of the time we do have together.”

She’s pretty certain that it won’t be as harmless in the end as he implies, and she thinks he knows it, too. But she’s run out of pertinent counterpoints—at least those that outweigh the feel of his lips on hers, and would he just kiss her already?

He does. Deep and rough and wet. His fingers make knots in her hair as he pulls her against him, and everything _fits_ as though they are matched pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. She wants to sink into him, become a part of him. It was never like this with Graham. But it was with Daniel.

And that scares her a little—a lot.

The hinges of the front door creak loudly, and Regina jumps back, cheeks flushing. Good grief, it’s not as if she’s some adolescent caught making out with her boyfriend in her bedroom. She rolls her eyes at her knee-jerk reaction.

“Mom?”

Her heart stops as she slowly turns around. “Henry?” Shock, then embarrassment, then elation bowl over her in rapid succession as she embraces her boy. “What are you doing here?”

Emma stands behind him, and her gaze flicks between Regina and Robin. “The kid was worried about you,” she says. “He tried to buy a bus ticket last night.”

Regina frowns at her son. “Henry.”

He gives her an apologetic smile. “Sorry?”

Regina cups his cheek. “We’ll talk about it later.” She knows she should be angry, but she’s too happy to see him. She hugs him again just to be sure he’s really here, and he responds with a half-hearted protest.

When she finally releases him, he glances at Robin. “You’re the sheriff?”

“I am.” Robin offers his hand to the boy. “Robin Locksley at your service. Your mother’s told me about you.”

Regina bites back a snort. He pried those snippets from her against her will.

“Yeah?” Henry’s question comes off a tad hostile. Regina shouldn’t be surprised, she supposes. She _had_ told Emma that she was having trouble with local law enforcement—which is still accurate, if for entirely different reasons. It’s only logical that Henry would (rightfully) blame Robin for Regina’s inability to come home.

“So,” Henry says, crossing his arms, “maybe you want to tell me why you were kissing my mom?”

Regina’s mouth falls open.

Robin’s phone goes off, and he looks profoundly relieved to have the distraction. He presses his lips together, brows creeping downward as he reads the message. “I’m afraid I have some unpleasant news,” he explains after a beat. “The judge has decided to extend his camping trip through the weekend. He won’t be able to hear your case until Monday.”

Regina pinches the bridge of her nose with a groan. Four more days stuck in this live-action greeting card town with her son bent on bringing down the Spanish inquisition on the man who is quickly becoming the wrench thrown into the cogwheels of her life. All in the presence of the birthmother whom Regina barely tolerates.

Oh, yes. This is going to be _great_.

At least Roland will get his wish of meeting Henry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the chapters I've written. Anything from here on out will be new.


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